


Stop All the Clocks

by catsmiaow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Long Shot, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-10 03:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17418146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmiaow/pseuds/catsmiaow
Summary: A bullet robs Lestrade of his memory, erasing everything including a lover no one else knew about.  Another enemy takes advantage of the situation and draws ever closer.





	1. Last sound, the world going out without a breath

_Last sound, the world going out without a breath._   
\--- **Elegy** , Dylan Thomas

 

**Going to hospital.  
SH**

Reading those words, Mycroft didn't hesitate in ringing his brother instead of texting back despite the too personal feel to the gesture. Even as he listened to the dull buzz of the connection being made, possibilities were sorted through and discarded with methodical precision. Accidental poisoning? A ricochet from his errant firing practise into the walls? Perhaps one of his eyeball experiments had finally blown up in his face and sprayed him with boiling fluid. Mycroft couldn't imagine writing that obituary. ' _Sherlock Holmes died tragically after being scalded by vitreous humour spraying from an ruptured human eye which caused catastrophic damage_ '. Mummy would never forgive him.

"That wasn't an invitation for a discussion,” Sherlock said in lieu of 'hello' or the sundry other greetings he could have given his only brother.

Mycroft wasn't surprised or willing to give tit for tat. For the most part. “Mummy will be most upset if you die, and I suppose she will blame me in a roundabout way.”

“It's not for me.”

Settling back in his chair as much as good posture would allow, Mycroft listened to the roar of an engine in the background from Sherlock's end. It was a cab from the sound of the rev and lull, more practised than a regular motorist would have been. Not to mention that the cabs were some of the best maintained on the road. Very faintly he could hear John Watson giving the address of a hospital. Odd. It wasn't the closest one to their shared domicile. That discarded a good many possible scenarios that involved Sherlock and dangerous items or dire poisoning. 

There was the smallest shred of something in Sherlock's voice that was off. It was noted and added into the mass of data to explain what was going on. “Oh?” Mycroft asked blandly, giving his brother the opportunity that Mycroft knew he needed so very much that would allow him to prove that he was better informed or simply knew more than everyone else. “Then why this impromptu journey? Running short on body parts? You have read ' _Frankenstein_ ', haven't you? Do remember what happened to the creator.”

“Lestrade has been shot,” Sherlock said shortly, his voice fading some as he informed the driver of six quicker routes to the hospital than the one currently being used.

A blink of an eye, three-tenths of second, was taken for Mycroft to compose himself fully and set his thoughts back in line. It was an eternity. There was no hesitation that betrayed that when he spoke, no tremble or note of emotion. Mycroft Holmes was merely a man who asked to see if one useful tool had been broken and would need to be speedily replaced by another. “How badly?”

“I don't know. I wasn't able to understand that bumbling woman of his once she started blubbering. All I got was ' _blood_ ', ' _shot_ ' and ' _head_ ',” Sherlock said disdainfully before picking back up his lecturing of the cabbie.

Mycroft's never ceasing mind observed that the world had becoming stifling for some reason. It must have been the air conditioning acting up again. Surely those words wouldn't have affected him so. If they were even true. “I see. I shall meet you there. It would be a pity to lose Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The blink and mental steadying was a full second this time. Mycroft rose from his chair and began issuing orders as he took his umbrella in hand. Before he reached the waiting government car, he had the needed information flashing across the screen of his Blackberry. All the facts leaped out at him, blunt and sharp at the same time.

Lestrade had been on his lunch, picking up one of those awful sandwiches that made Mycroft feel his cholesterol soaring when a petty thief had ripped the purse off a mother with a small child and ran with it. The good DI had chased the would-be criminal down an alley with one of his peons behind him when the suspect turned and fired at Lestrade with a cheap black market gun that should have blown up in the suspect's hand by all rights. But it hadn't. Instead, it had sent a bullet straight into the head of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and made Mycroft Holmes feel as if there wasn't any air left in the world.

As the black car joined the flow of traffic, Mycroft arranged to have the suspect transferred somewhere that...

Mycroft stopped that line of thought. It barely bore considering. The round had probably only clipped Lestrade or the point of impact was being reportly wrongly. In the heat of the moment it was hard to judge how badly anyone had been wounded. Blood could look as if there were more of it than there really was, especially with a head wound. That had to be it. Street thugs didn't have practical knowledge of guns and how to precisely fire them so a headshot would have been nearly impossible, wouldn't it? The United Kingdom had one of the lowest gun fatality rates in the world. From 2000 to 2011, there had only been three police officers shot fatally in the line of duty. 

Therefore, the person who wrote that erronous report had been mistaken. Mycroft had spoken to Gregory just this morning about how it was not helpful to have cheese danishes sitting about their _(Gregory's really, but that was a small detail)_ flat when he was trying to watch his weight. A day that began as mundanely as that couldn't end in something ridiculous like Gregory being shot in the head, could it? Of course not. Logic spoke against it. He was the most powerful man in all of England, was the British government occasionally. His lover couldn't have been gunned down in a filthy alleyway like some _cur_.

It truly wasn't worth giving thought on what would happen to this suspect from Mycroft's hand if- well, no, that couldn't happen because Mycroft had bought a proper umbrella stand and placed it near the door of their flat because he had wanted to see what Gregory would think when he tripped over it tonight. He wanted to hear what was sure to be the resulting small tirade on upper class things sneaking into his home. Mycroft would then be forced to correct him that it was 'their' home since Gregory refused to abandon that place and give into the security that would result from being the open lover-boyfriend-choice or whatever politically correct term they were using these days for being the companion of someone of Mycroft's station.

One night, Gregory had compared a life like that to being in a killing jar and then -

With a deep breath, Mycroft steadied the thoughts that had been trying to rocket wildly down a track that he hadn't expected. With that corrected, he stepped out of the car (he had somehow missed that it had come to a stop and his door been opened) and headed up to the doors. His breathing was slowed, his face showed no expression except for the the slightest air of boredom. The umbrella tapped quietly with each step, a calm counterpoint to his heart as it tried to race again and all Mycroft wanted to hear in the din around him. The world was noise he didn't want to acknowledge, unimportant on the whole.

\--------

There was a whisper, one that he caught despite meaning to speak directly to Sherlock and John Watson for news, but Mycroft heard it against his will. He could no more ignore the input of the world than his brother could. Once those words had wound their way into his ears and mind, he found them difficult to delete.

“What's the Freak's nosy brother doing here?”

A woman's voice. Mycroft's eyes stayed on his brother who was crouched in a chair next to Doctor Watson even as his mind dissembled everything from that one bit of information until a suitable suspect was found. Would it be satisfying enough to ruin her career? Make her vanish? To crush her down for that comment? No, probably not, and he would have to deal with Gregory's upset on the matter. It wasn't worth it.

Some part of him whispered an insidious ' _yet_ '.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

So this was what it felt like to be an observer instead of controlling. Mycroft decided he didn't like the feeling much. Of course, he already knew everything right down to the credentials of the surgeon who was currently working on his lover. A top graduate from Yale. He was acceptable until the best could be found.

“Any news?” he asked as if inquiring of the weather instead of the thing that was making him feel as if the world were dimming and alternating between rushing and going too slow about him. It was disquieting to not have his hand (or one of his catspaws) on the trigger. This would have to be remedied.

“None yet,” Sherlock grumped as he poked at the buttons on his mobile.

“Ah.”

It was an hour (full of Sherlock bemoaning his fate, Watson trying to shush him, more of those barely heard whispers and calls or messages Mycroft ignored) before anything more was heard. It was an hour that time side-slipped in, going fast and then too slow depending on how his traitorous thoughts swung. For all his power, he couldn't do anything besides clean up behind the accident that had brought Gregory here. Jerking his thoughts back on track, he tried to concentrate on the surgeon's words.

Mycroft decided within a half-second that this might not be the man for the job, Yale education or not. Did he truly want to trust his Gregory's safety to a doctor who wore those hideous Croc things one could barely call proper foot attire?

Concentration was becoming a bit difficult, he noted. This was an unexpected side-effect, but one Mycroft would be sure to guard against. Gregory would have understood and probably teased him about the boy of wood becoming human, but Gregory wasn't there.

Oh yes, the surgeon was speaking. He would have to make sure to have John Watson check over his work. Perhaps they could get someone else to 'consult' as well. Someone who didn't have such sloppy taste in footwear. It was important, just as good posture was.

“What?” Mycroft asked, gaining himself glares from all around. Except for Sherlock. His brother was watching him intently, the cat with paw raised outside the mouse's hole.

“I said that the bullet entered above his right temple at the hairline and 'skimmed' for lack of a better word along his skull before exiting out the back,” the surgeon repeated.

Mycroft noted that the surgeon's hands were clean (of course he had worn gloves) and so were what he could see of the ugly green scrubs (Gregory hated green) beneath the white coat with the hospital's insignia but he could not ignore the small spot of redness that was mostly out of sight beneath the too white-white of the doctor's reassuring lab coat. It taunted and called to him. _See me! I came from his veins! You remember those veins that were supposed to be nice and closed? Remember? They were wide open and spilling red-red-red-red everything! I landed here! Guess where the rest is?_

“What about the hydrostatic shock?” Sherlock demanded.

Silence held for a very short time, enough for the surgeon to look surprised before he regained himself and answered. “We don't know.”

“What is that?” the woman demanded, the one that Mycroft was sure had spoken earlier.

Sherlock's glance at her said all the things that Mycroft had the good breeding not to. He felt fleetingly grateful, as much as he could with his mind refusing to settle on one thing and just let him think, damn it.

“A bomb. When it goes off, the pressure wave flattens everything. A bullet is the same. As it travels, it leaves a shockwave that comes along behind it, doing as much damage as the bullet itself does,” Sherlock said shortly, keeping the surgeon in his sights.

She paled in what Mycroft thought was a most ugly way, reminding him of curdled milk.

“We... don't know,” the doctor said slowly. He couldn't have been more than thirty-five, but one would have pegged him at closer to fifty with the lines on his face etched by exhaustion and prematurely grey patches at his temples. “We did have to relieve some of the pressure on his brain...”

“Would have liked to seen that,” Sherlock said with a wistfulness that brought him glares from all around and a muttered 'freak'.

The surgeon ignored it, plowing on. Mycroft could see in the set of his eyes and body language that he wanted to be done with this and on to other things. There would definitely need to be specialists brought in. He couldn't have carelessness or tiredness working on the man he was trusting Gregory to. “We won't know until he wakes up and can respond. The best we can do right now is guess. The prognosis looks good. I can give you that.”

It had to be enough for now.

Mycroft had calls to make, mics and cameras to be installed, and guards to put in place. Gregory's safety wasn't to be trusted to anyone but him.

“Can we see him?” another of Gregory's people asked, one who's name Mycroft had known this morning but didn't remember now, and he stopped mid-key in his message.

“Only family and close friends for a short time. He's still unconscious. I will warn you of that.”

He had started to take a step forward when he stopped himself. No one knew, did they? He wasn't family or friend, only Sherlock's brother. Just another person who put demands on DI Lestrade for his own means and ends. They had taken such care that no one would realize... Now he had fallen into a trap of his own making.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could prove as the rest of Gregory's troupe followed the surgeon back to the recovery rooms. For all his power, Mycroft Holmes couldn't be one of them right now and go see the man who had been whispering his name at the peak of climax last night and unnumbered ones before. There was no identification he could present or evidence he could give that would show that he was closer to the wounded man than any of them had been or would be. Knowing that Gregory had a tiny birthmark in the shape of a thumbprint on his left inner thigh just above the knee wouldn't help him right now, nor would he have spilled that private information. All he could do was stand there numbly while they filed away through the doors and beyond where Gregory was.

“Mycroft?”

The man who sometimes was the British Government blinked at his brother and saw him instead of those who were leaving to go be near the man who needed him. It was a second and a half this time. Disturbing that. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

Even feeling stunned and smothered in the airless world as he was, Mycroft caught the unexpected concern in Sherlock's words. “Quite.”

Inconsequential words followed that Mycroft said all the right answers to, putting his brother off the trail for now even if Doctor John Watson did seem a little suspicious. Sherlock no more understood human nature than he did. He had work to do and couldn't be troubled over Watson just now.

\----------

It was a week before Gregory Lestrade opened his eyes and asked where he was, and more importantly, who he was to people he didn't recognize.


	2. And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

_And caught between two nights, blindness and death._

Shock, like all things, soon passed. In the calm that followed, Mycroft watched and waited. There were a few matters to see to that required his personal attention while Gregory Lestrade slept and healed.

There was no news article about the escape of a criminal, something no one noticed or cared about on the whole outside of a select few who had a stake in his being put in prison. The city wasn't alerted, and the police force didn't spring into action. That had taken some doing, especially with Lestrade's people taking it upon themselves to scour the area for the man who had shot Lestrade. It wouldn't have mattered if they had mobilized all of the Met and SIS to boot to find that particular individual. Not that Mycroft would have let that occur. He happened to be the occasional dining companion of the woman who really ran matters at 85 Vauxhall Cross instead of the man who occasionally appeared on the news or in the dailies.

No, that particular petty criminal who had inadvertently elevated himself to a would-be murderer was safely ensconced elsewhere under Mycroft's eye. He was being treated rather well considering what he had done. A single room most likely became dull at times, Mycroft supposed, but he was well fed and didn't have a mark on him. Mycroft checked on him at least once a day, watching the man move about his cell or sleep. Nothing was done for the time being. This was the man who had nearly snuffed out Gregory Lestrade, and Mycroft watched him as if there might be some clue or apparent reason as to why this all affected him so. If he contained the one who had caused it all, surely this would pass, correct?

With his initial anger and, dare he call it 'fear'... no, best to leave it at 'concern'... passed, Mycroft had set to doing what he did best whether it was the potential for a war breaking out in an area that was pertinent to the Crown's interest or his brother getting arrested: he moved the world about him from the shadows.

Going to the hospital had been a mistake, one he could admit now. It was a minor sting to his ego to have done such a hasty thing, but the fact that The Woman was currently working shifts in the worst places she would rather not for the foreseeable future made it slightly more bearable. The gentleman in power in New Scotland Yard was also an occasional dinner or opera companion of Mycroft's.

With that matter resolved as far as Mycroft wanted it to be for the time being, he moved on to other things. No hospital room was more secure than Gregory Lestrade's. The finest specialists from the Americas to Europe were now in residence at the hospital, supposedly due to the gratitude of a nation, the Met or whatever convenient group made the public feel good and supportive. It was more due to someone owing Mycroft for being knighted and funds diverted from one off-shoot branch of the government to another last year when it looked as if auditor might uncover something potentially embarrassing. The ends justified the means.

Right now, Mycroft could have watched Gregory from the numerous tiny cameras in the room or gotten the latest update on his condition if he wished, but discipline long engrained assured that he did not. All the reports he had read thus far told him the same thing anyways: brain damage of some sort was to be expected. The question was how deeply and how long lasting. Neither of those questions worried Mycroft much. After all, his brother was Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft was the elder which meant wiser. If worse came to absolute worst, meaning that Gregory woke up with the capacity of a small child, Mycroft would pull every string he could and wield whatever power he needed to that would put him in direct care of Gregory. He had already looked into what it would take to convert his home into whatever safe environment would be needed as well as checking credentials of a full staff to see to such a possible medical necessity. There would be no institution or care in anywhere that was not a place that Mycroft didn't feel his lover would be comfortable and have the best care. If Gregory woke up as childlike shadow of himself, Mycroft would spoon-feed him every single day and make sure every comfort he needed or wanted was his. Gregory Lestrade would want for nothing even if his mind was ruined.

When his private line, the one only the finest neurosurgeon in all of Europe had access to rang, he didn't hesitate to step away from the most powerful man in the Middle East to answer it.

Some things were more pressing than the world.

\--------------

Two weeks of confusion passed for Gregory Lestrade.

He had awoken in a crisp white bed, the fine linen sheets under him feeling like a blessing against a body that hurt everywhere. Were such rich and soft things hospital issue? A few days had come and gone in a drugged haze as people he didn't recognize kept speaking to him, trying to tell him about who he was and what had happened. It was all a void to him. Fear had kept trying to leap up in his throat, tainting his mouth with a bitter metallic taste like blood but was eased by whatever high-tension painkillers he was on.

The first look in a mirror had been a shock.

The man who stared back at him was as much a stranger as everyone else. His fingers had timidly touched the lattice-work of fine stitching that started just above his temple and wound back to the swell of his skull. One of the doctors told him that he had been shot, news repeated by the ones named 'Donovan' and 'Watson' to him. Some part of him had recognized that what he was seeing in the mirror wasn't regular stitchery by any old doctor. No, this had been sewn up to be nearly invisible when it healed. This had taken money and the finest of steady hands.

While he might have amnesia, Gregory Lestrade (and they told him over and over that was his name) was no one's fool. His personal belongings had been in the hospital bed nightstand, and he had gone through his wallet to discover more about himself that wasn't being said to him. He was with the Met according to what he had been told and the identification he found. Detective Inspector. Not bad. There had been scant personal information in there, not even snaps of family or friends. The mobile had been next, numbers paged through and matched up with people who had come to see him. 'Sherlock' was passed over for now. Sargent Sally Donovan had told him all about him. All the names were ones he recognized as his regular visitors except for one that was labeled 'M'. Trying to call the number had given him a voicemail with a computerized voice that stated that the number was busy right now without saying who 'M' was. Ringing off, he tried text instead. There was something about it that his ruined brain wasn't giving up.

Or wanted to.

What does one say to someone they don't know? 'Oh pardon me, but I found you number and thought you might know who I am?'. Not likely.

**Hello.**   
**GL**

Minutes spun out as he waited for a reply of any sort before giving it up. There hadn't been anything else interesting in the pile of personal possessions. A few notes, a bullet and a the things anyone walking the planet would have had in their pockets. His life was a big nothing. What did it say about a man who only had an unknown 'M' as a clue? Pathetic.

A quiet 'ding' followed by the first few notes of 'God Save the Queen' came from the discarded mobile. Snatching it up, Gregory studied the screen, unaware that someone else had broken their own rule and was watching him from three different angles.

**Hello, Gregory.**   
**M**

That was all it read, and not a whole fuck of a lot of help thank you very much, Gregory growled to himself.

**Who are you?**   
**GL**

Direct was the best route. While he didn't know anything about himself, Lestrade suspected he was a direct sort instead of trying to be coy. He didn't see the purpose in it. It was barely thirty seconds that he had to wait this time for a reply.

**The question is more, who are you? I am told you do not remember.**   
**M**

The mind might be erased on the surface thanks to an incidental bullet, but Lestrade never doubted his instincts. He followed them with the same ease a bloodhound would an interesting scent and without any doubt despite his faulty memory.

**I'm told I'm DI Lestrade. Who are you?**   
**GL**

Nearly a full minute this time. He had been about to toss the mobile back onto the nightstand again.

**Your name is 'Gregory', not 'DI Lestrade'. That is what you are, not who you are. You always hated 'Greg'. Claimed it made you sound like some cheap hustler selling greasy food to American tourists.**   
**M**

Lestrade stilled as he read the message. He had been called 'Greg' more than once since awakening here, and it hadn't been something he liked, a shying away from what he felt deep down was a false label. There was a note of truth to it all. Others called him 'Detective Inspector', but no one could tell him much who he was beyond that. A name wasn't the person. All the food sneaked into him by well-meaning people who said they were his friends and co-workers hadn't been one he liked all that much. The more he listened to them, the more he was sure they didn't really know him, but they were trying hard to seem like they did. He was grateful for that, but he couldn't help missing someone who knew him.

**Then you know me. What are my favourite foods?**   
**GL**

He was hungry. So what? Hospital food was horrible! He didn't have to wait long this time.

**You love those flaky and fattening cheese danishes, the homemade sort from that stand over by King's Cross, not the store-bought sort. For lunch, you would eat those horrible hamburgers with chips wrapped in newspaper slathered with vinegar, catsup and salt everyday if you could despite what it does to your cholesterol. Or the dark looks you would get for using catsup. For supper, you are most fond of a good cut of steak with just a pinch of salt and that seasoned butter from Astrole's with a baked potato and sour cream on the side. I have been trying to cultivate a love of truffles in you, and you almost went for it until you figured out pigs found them.**   
**M**

Gregory's stomach gave a loud growl at just the thought of such things. Escaping this hospital moved up a few slots on his list of priorities.

**Who are you?**   
**GL**

**Someone who you are the world to. But also someone who can't ever claim that right in public.**   
**M**

No matter what Lestrade tried after that, no reply was forthcoming.

\-------------------

Finally back in his flat, Gregory Lestrade began poking about methodically. It had taken him two hours to get everyone out. He had finally met the great 'Sherlock Holmes' that he had been told all sorts of horror stories about. Didn't seem all that bad, just a dark hair man with intense eyes that watched him as if he were a poodle about to do an interesting dance.

When they were gone with reassurance to call any (or all) of them if he were afraid or wanted company, Gregory wasn't sure what to think. Most of those people, except for that 'Sherlock' or maybe the Watson that was a doctor, would have done anything for him. Their want to help him bordered on smothering, as if they were trying to make up for something. Police instincts couldn't be silenced even when he wanted them to be.

It was almost a relief to have a good beer and turn on the telly for some mindless entertainment. His DVR had faithfully recorded what it told him was his favourites. Flipping through them, he finally settled on a sitcom of some sort as he opened his mobile.

**I'm home.**   
**GL**

To his surprise, that chime had come a few minutes later. He had been texting or calling 'M' for the past few days with no response.

**Good. You needed to be.**   
**M**

And why was that?, Gregory asked himself. No answer came to him. Had this 'M' visited him? Had he been close to that mysterious figure and never known it? His instincts told him no.

**Why don't you save us both the time and tell me who you are?**   
**GL**

**I told you before.**   
**M**

**You could be lying.**   
**GL**

**You know I am not.**   
**M**

That was true. He knew it even if he couldn't put a label on this 'M'.

**Are you near then? Were you here tonight?**   
**GL**

**Not anywhere that you could see. Go to sleep. I will be there.**   
**M**

Even in this alien world with people he didn't know, Gregory slept without dreams for the first night since awakening.

Whoever this 'M' was, he was there. He knew it.

\--------------------

Mycroft Holmes let three days pass before he answered another of Gregory Lestrade's texts despite having read each one. The two voicemails were listened to as well although they consisted mostly of Greg saying that he was bored (that was a flash of Sherlock that Mycroft could have done without) and that a reply sometime might be nice. Patience never had been one of his lover's best points.

On what could have been a brighter note, Mycroft knew that Lestrade had tripped over the new umbrella stand a grand total of seven times and had yet to get rid of it. Recording had rendered the audio tinny (and a note to self was made to upgrade those immediately) but the results had been intriguing.

_“Fuck!”_   
_(amazingly loud thud of one inspector's body making contact with a wooden floor)_   
_“That's the third time this week you've tripped over that thing coming in the door.”_   
_“I know! I know!”_   
_“Why don't you throw it out? Or move it? You don't even own an umbrella.”_   
_“I don't know! Have some mercy for the wounded here.”_

The scene always seemed to go the same as Mycroft watched it on the computer screen in high definition. Whoever was with Gregory, most likely that Donovan woman, would help him up and the matter would soon be forgotten about. The umbrella stand would stay in its sly place by the door, just waiting to trip the unwary when he walked in the door next. Yesterday, he had watched Gregory pick the finely made stand up and turn it over curiously. The Swaine Adeney Brigg stamp was clear beneath it.

It hadn't been the Prince of Wales that had chosen them if one wanted the truth, but Mycroft himself. Charles had horrid taste in umbrellas, and probably wouldn't know what to do at SW1A.

Mycroft had read everything he could find on amnesia and regaining what had been lost. None of them seemed to agree. The stamp and seal would have meant nothing to Gregory, and Mycroft knew that. While he would admit that he had strong 'emotions' for Gregory Lestrade, quite honestly, the good inspector was lost when it came to what fork to use for which dish and what was 'fine quality' and flat out expensive. Gregory would fall for the gilt as well as gold, confuse the nouveau riche for those with a proper pedigree. After all, this was the same man who had celebrated their first Christmas by singing 'Mele Kalikimaka' while trying to talk Mycroft into helping him decorate what he called a 'Christmas tree' (and Mycroft mentally referred to as a reject from even the worst lot that shed more needles than was healthy in any world) with gaudy plastic bulbs.

Plastic. 

The horror.

To his Gregory, the stand might be something picked up at a rummage sale and discarded just as easily.

Mycroft found himself holding his breath as he leaned closer to the laptop screen, as if he could force his will through it.

Instead of throwing it out or setting it elsewhere, Gregory had placed the umbrella stand exactly back where Mycroft had set it what seemed like an eternity ago, where he would trip on it tomorrow. His heart hurt as he watched Gregory's fingertip trace the fine leather and wood frame, a puzzlement there. Mycroft breathed finally, the screen fogging.

He could see it in those dark eyes that Lestrade was working on the puzzle, figuring it out. Not with Sherlock's speed, but he was. That didn't stop the twist of depression that followed when Gregory Lestrade pushed himself to his feet and walk out of frame without anything else or another sign.

Still, it was something.

Mycroft had to tell himself that.

And that it was better than nothing.

\------------------------

It had taken two weeks before Lestrade was allowed back into work, and he highly suspected that was a last ditch effort by the others to try and spur something in his recalcitrant memory. So far there had been nothing but a few flashes and disturbing dreams that were full of corpses and blood. What wasn't horrifying weren't proper memories either, only shadowy images or suggestions of people or things Gregory knew he should have recognized. It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue and only able to fumble for it embarrassingly.

All of his doctor appointments and checkups had been faithfully attended, often seeing that Doctor Watson while he was there.

“We had thought he had white-coat syndrome at first,” the first of four neurosurgeons had said during the first appointment Watson had sat in on. “His pulse had jumped into the danger zone.”

Watson hadn't said anything, only given them a thin lipped smile and offered Gregory some coffee afterward along with a few stories of what he knew about him. It had been a relief. Everyone else tiptoed around the subject or reminded him of his name as he had been rendered stupid as well as robbed of his memory. 

In the end, there was nothing they could tell him or advise him of beyond trying to return to his normal routine. Ensconced behind a desk out with the rest of the force, Lestrade decided that his 'normal routine' consisted of a lot of paperwork and babysitting. The first he understood. The second, not so much.

Sherlock Holmes had blown in like a hurricane and right back out as quickly on his third day of trying this at the temporary desk instead of the real office that stayed dark and locked.

“Do you have any cases for me?”

“Uh, no.”

That had been their whole conversation. Sherlock had stalked back out then talking loudly to himself, leaving a very surprised Lestrade behind. “That happen often?” he asked Watson before the doctor could scurry after his... friend, companion, lover? Gregory didn't know which term to use, but he guessed at the last. No one could stand that for very long if not for something other than friendship.

“He's a little bored with no new cases coming in,” Watson said in way of an apology. “He usually doesn't come down here to harass you though. It's normally just texts.”

“He works for us?” Lestrade was sure he hadn't seen any 'Holmes' listed on the roll sheets.

“He's something of a consulting detective,” Watson said with a grin over his shoulder before he raced off down the hallway to chase after Sherlock.

Okay. That had been interesting.


	3. He was my North

_He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest._ \-- WH Auden, **Stop All the Clocks**

Lestrade wasn't quite sure what to do once he found himself behind what he was being told was 'his' desk instead of the temporary one. Sally Donovan had met him at his flat this morning and after a quick breakfast of coffee that could strip paint and eggs slathered with mayo onto bread that tasted a few days old (which she assured him that he ate most mornings... and would explain the pill bottles in his medicine cabinet for acid reflux) and brought him here. Sitting behind 'his' desk, Lestrade could feel the eyes of others on him, as if they thought sitting in that chair would somehow bring his memory back. So far, it wasn't working, but he was becoming sure that the one spring in the seat was doing its best to ensure he never had children. No amount of shifting would help and had so far garnered him at least seven wondering looks. He had to lower his head to hide the smirk when he wondered if his testicular fortitude had gone with his memory.

While it struck him as hilarious, Lestrade doubted anyone else would get the joke. At least not until they had the pleasure of this chair. Didn't he earn enough as a DI to rate a better one? Or had he made the conscious decision not to have children earlier?

That didn't help at all. Silent laughter shook his shoulders.

'God Save the Queen' piped merrily from the mobile he'd left on his desktop. Swiping his face on the side of his sleeve (and barely catching the whisper outside his door of being in his office moving him to tears... how touching) Lestrade thumbed the keys and took in the Mysterious M's wisdom for the day. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that 'M' was one of the few things to look forward to. While everyone else treated him like glass or that he was a not overly bright child, 'M' didn't bother to pad everything in cotton. He (or she, although Lestrade somehow knew that 'M' was a male) was witty and knew something about everything it seemed. 'M' didn't have any difficulties making Lestrade himself the target of a few barbs when the opportunity presented itself. It felt good in a way, to be part of a joke, even if it was at his expense.

**Discovering the joys of the eunuch chair, are we?**   
**M**

Lestrade had come to question less and less how 'M' knew the things he did. He suspected cameras and the like, but that opened doorways he'd rather not walk through and give in to paranoia.

**Am I really in control around here? The 'boss'?**   
**GL**

**One could say that to a degree, yes. Why?**   
**M**

**Then why do I have a chair that is determined to cut off my bits and pieces with a rusty spring barely concealed beneath a thin seat?**   
**GL**

**The easy answer would be the amusement factor given that your people appear about ready to rush in to comfort you. Little do they realize those are tears of laughter. The long answer would be that you keep it to dissuade others from stealing your chair to assume a position of false power.**   
**M**

It took more restraint than anyone knew for Lestrade to get up and shut his door long with the blinds to shut off his office from prying eyes. Despite the heart of steel he was sure Sally Donovan had, even from what little he knew of her, she was dabbing her eyes at the emotion. Taking his seat gingerly, Lestrade was at least able to grin without the others seeing.

**Is that the voice of personal experience speaking?**   
**GL**

**I will admit that I did once attempt such. It is difficult to be intimidating when one is concerned about the state of their more tender parts if they shift their weight the wrong way.**   
**M**

**Words fail me.  
 **GL****

****

**And they did. Lestrade had tears streaming from his eyes, trying to stifle his laughter as best he could. His mental image of 'M' was of a prim and proper man, suit and tie. He couldn't image someone oh-so-upper-crust trying to perch right on his death chair.**

****

**Rightly they should. You are the only one who has ever convinced that beastly chair not to sever or puncture something necessary. Most only try it once while you stand back and smirk at them, waiting and watching.**   
**M**

That did it. Lestrade had to bury his face in his arms to stifle his laughter. At least he was able to wipe his tears in privacy this time.

**Tell me Sherlock Holmes tried it once.**   
**GL**

There is a pause this time, a few minutes time instead of the normal time it would take for someone to reply. While Lestrade couldn't fully tell it, he sensed something had changed.

**No, he did not. He either heard enough stories or observed for himself that such would be dangerous. Do you not like him?**   
**M**

**It's not a matter of 'liking'. I can bear him, even find him amazing at times. It's his brother.**   
**GL**

Was the pause longer this time, or did he imagine it?

**What of him?**   
**M**

**He's creepy. When he smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes. It's like he's waiting for something or knows what you should be doing. He knows everything it seems. He's everywhere.**   
**GL**

**One could say that I do too.**   
**M**

**But you're not like him.**   
**GL**

**How do you know I'm not him? 'M' could be 'Mycroft Holmes'.**   
**M**

Lestrade had to snort outloud. 'M' could no more be that Mycroft Holmes than Sherlock could be. Still, it was better to take the sly route.

**If you were Mycroft Holmes, you would have said so instead of hiding. He doesn't look like a man who is willing to be in the shadows. What would a ponce like Mycroft Holmes have to do with me?**   
**GL**

Miles away, a man gripped the small phone in his hands and closed his eyes before replying. The game could be over now, but more damage could be done by breaking the guise.

**I could be. Have a good day, Gregory. Matters need my attention. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need me.**   
**M**

**Will do. You okay?**   
**GL**

**Yes.**   
**M**

With that, Lestrade was left to his own devices to figure out what it was a 'Detective Inspector' did precisely. Shaking his head, Lestrade pressed a hand to his forehead to try and hold back the headache that was already pounding in his temples. Taking another swig of his coffee that tasted like it came out of a tin with that metallic aftertaste instead of from actual beans, Gregory signed his name to one paper and picked up the next with a sigh.

\-----------------

What a difference a few hours make.

\-----------------

**Gregory?**   
**M**

**What?**   
**GL**

**You seem ill.**   
**M**

**I'm fucking tired and my head aches. I'll talk to you tomorrow.**   
**GL**

**Sleep well.**   
**M**

\-------------

There was no reply, so Mycoft Holmes sat watching as he finished up paperwork on the war he was preventing on the Turkey border and watched Gregory pace restlessly before skipping dinner and drinking enough alcohol until he passed out and Mycroft was concerned on whether or not he needed to call the paramedics.

This would bear watching. The last thing a man recovering from a gunshot wound needed was a case of the flu or the like. The memory loss was a relief in a small way to Mycroft. He had been able to stock Gregory's fridge and closet without the man suspecting anything. The bills had similarly disappeared, paid by Mycroft's dummy accounts. Getting his lover back was paramount. Money was not.

For now, all he could do was watch helplessly as Gregory watched foolish sitcoms and downed shot after shot of alcohol.

\---------------

Over the week, the headache had become worse. When Friday came, his head was pounding. It had to be the damn cheap coffee with the metallice after-taste. Nothing seemed to touch it. Lestrade had ended up back at the neurologist's to try and find an answer. What came back was the same as always: brain damage was unpredictable. Headaches and the twitches he was experiencing was to be expected.

On Monday, John Watson had visited him for a couple of hours.

Lestrade had arrived on Monday feeling fresh and relaxed. That feeling had lasted the whole of ten minutes before he found himself dealing with Donovan complaining about 'the Freak' (who was evidently Sherlock Holmes) lurking about as if he had a right to be there. Halfway through this long and detailed complaint, Gregory suspected this was something common and that he may just be the victim of someone taking advantage of his memory loss to grind an ax. The whole thing left him with an ugly temper and ended with him shouting at her to get the hell out of his office and grow a pair before slamming the door soundly after her.

“Wasn't that a bit over the top?” Watson asked him.

“Deal with this shit day in and day out and see if you think it is,” Gregory snarled at him as he pulled another case file open and started on it as Watson took a seat beside him. "And the coffee it worse."

About an hour later, John had to agree. It was like iron had been added to the brew. After two cups, he had to leave with a pounding headache from the stuff. Lestrade had waved him out with barely a look.

\-----------------------

“John?”

Sherlock was sure it had been John that walked in (hard to tell when he had been engrossed with seeing how microwaves affected the outer lining of the heart) but the slamming of doors had been new. In his case-less state, something so trite had become interesting. What was the world coming to?

Knocking was something for other people so Sherlock threw open the door that had been shut against him, frowning at John as he watched the other crawl into bed. “It's too early for bed.”

“Stating the fucking obvious, Sherlock?” John mumbled, dragging a pillow over his head.

Had Sherlock known that it took him the same second to blink and reassert reality as it had Mycroft, he would not have been amused.

“John, what's wrong?” he asked, trying to sound concerned even as his mind ground on and brought up at least ten scenarios that could explain this unprecedented behavior on John's part.

“Fuck off, Sherlock!” John shouted. At least Sherlock was sure he shouted. The pillows muffled the sound until one detached from the rest with the help of John's hand and threw itself at him. “My mouth tastes like I've been eating iron, my head hurts from that shitty coffee, and I don't want to deal with you!”

Sherlock Holmes called it a strategic withdrawl instead of a retreat as he gently closed John's door behind him. Too many facts swam before his mind's eye, all of them noted right down to the tic of his cheek that John had acquired. He sat quietly on the couch for fifteen minutes before he drew out his mobile and dialed the number he didn't want to under any circumstances.

He did it for John.

\-----------------------

When morning came, Sherlock ignored all those around him as he strung yellow tape over the door of DI Lestrade's office door. A gas mask was already in hand thanks to who he had to call and who else he may have called.

“What the fuck is that arrogant tosser doing here?”

Gregory Lestrade's voice cut through the low murmur of his fellow officers like a blade. The past few days hadn't been kind to Lestrade, Sherlock observed as he laid a last bit of tape on the closed door. There were dark shadows around his eyes and a tic to the cornre of his mouth. There were whispers among the other officers about ominous things like 'mental breakdown'. Having seen John himself, Sherlock didn't doubt this looked like just that to the uneducated eye.

“And his brother,” Lestrade added as he shoved aside uncerimoniously the last few people to reach Sherlock.

At Sherlock's side, Mycroft stood unmoving. Threats never bothered him, no matter who they came from. On the whole, snarlings from a detective inspector of the Met ranked very low on his list of concerns. He's sick, Mycroft reminded himself as he took the insult without comment and only watched. This was Sherlock's show as long as Mycroft was willing to let it be even if he did mentally note all the things his younger brother already had. The cornre of Lestrade's lips tugged in an unconscious tic, his eyes were bloodshot and he overall looked like a man on the edge of losing his mind. Dark eyes watched all of them with clear paranoia and readying anger from dark hollows. Coupled with everything he had seen in his nightly views, it painted an ugly picture.

“You've been poisoned,” Sherlock said shortly, silencing everyone as he hung the gas mask around his neck.

“What are you on about?” Lestrade growled, far too quick violence and fury showing clear in his eyes. Had Sherlock not known this man for years, he would have called him a stranger. He had seen Lestrade angry at him before, especially over the drugs, but never looking as if he might flat out wrap his hands around Sherlock's throat and strangle him.

“You're being poisoned. I suspected it yesterday when I saw John after he came home,” Sherlock replied, keeping his attention on the door as he smoothed the 'WARNING' tape around the frame. “He was angry without reason and having muscle spasms. I brought him some tea later, and he was nearly drooling. It points to only one thing. Been having difficulties controlling your temper lately, Inspector? All too easy to excuse it due to your head wound, isn't it?”

Sherlock's gaze raked angrily over the officers that had gathered about for a show, perhaps to see Lestrade breakdown completely. At least some of them had the good grace to look worried and horrified at what had happened to the man they had looked to as a leader before.

From Sherlock's side, Mycroft tightened his fingers ever so slightly around the crook handle of his umbrella. Gregory Lestrade's face wasn't that of the man he loved. If Sherlock hadn't told him last night, explained all this... well, Mycroft wasn't sure if he would have believed this change in personality wasn't due to the bullet's damage.

The anger in Gregory Lestrade's eyes broke and he reached for Sherlock's turned-away back.

The tip of an umbrella struck lightly on the back of Lestrade's hand in warning, enough to hurt and stop him in his tracks.

“Did you just...”

“I believe I did.”

“With a...”

“That I did.”

The tip of said umbrella once more rested against the floor now that Mycroft had all of Lestrade's attention on him. That ugly and unpredictable anger was slowly leaking out of Lestrade's eyes, the inspector's gaze locked on Mycroft's umbrella. With that rage leaving, confused puzzlement returned. Lestrade frowned as if he could almost... almost... recall something. When Donovan pushed through the gathering crowd to demand to know what was going on, the spell was broken and Lestrade looked away without another sign.

Mycroft was edging ever closer to assigning The Woman to somewhere far less pleasant, such as Siberia. He could find a reason. Not that he really needed to, of course.

The task was accomplished though. Sherlock had enough time to pick the locks and break into Lestrade's office after putting enough warning tape around it to keep anyone out.

\---------------------

When Sherlock came back out, Lestrade had scattered the others like chickens, sending them back to their work. Only he and Mycroft were left in the hall.

“It was as I thought,” Sherlock said, holding up a tightly closed small plastic box that had a few inches of what looked like liquid silver in the bottom. “A mercury cyanide compound. It had been set over the lights. When they were turned on, the heat from them slowly melted it and released a vapour. You're going to need to go to the hospital and have them check you for long-term effects. John is already there.”

Far too subdued, Mycroft thought as a wave of his hand had a protesting Gregory taken down to his waiting private car. Sherlock should have been smirking and bouncing about in a most undignified manner at being the one to solve the crime, figure it out before anyone else. Mycroft waited, watching his brother in silence for a few beats in that empty hallway before he spoke. “And?”

“And there was this up in the lights as well.”

Sherlock held out a small picture to Mycroft. It wasn't of the best quality, taken at a distance of Sherlock himself. There was a heart-shaped hole in the centre of his chest had been burnt crudely out.


	4. Interlude and Plans

“The purpose of a door is generally to keep others out. If you're going to ignore that first fact, the polite thing to do is to knock on it to gain admittance, not pick the locks and sweep in.”

“I suppose it's polite to spy on others then? Or is it a force of habit by now? Looking for diet tips or needing to verify his safety yourself?”

Mycroft seemed to ignore Sherlock's presence at his back. For all the outward animosity between them, Sherlock was one of the few people he would allow behind him, unseen and unmonitored. Before, he would have turned off the monitors and hid the figures sleeping in a pair of nearly identical beds from his brother's prying eyes. Now, he left them on and broadcasting. The unnatural bluish light from the screens was the only illumination in the small unfinished seeming room. The truth of the matter was that this room in Mycroft's home was one of the most secure. Its appearance had fooled better men, or would-be spies, into not discovering its true purpose. Such as how within a few keystrokes Mycroft had the full scope of the CCTV system (and other less legal ones) to see and hear whatever he liked. “You've guessed by now.”

“I have, yes. Lestrade wasn't what I expected of you.”

“The hospital was where I made my mistake. I had thought as much.”

No reply came as Sherlock took the purposely set out seat next to his brother before the literal bank of screens. He had been expected. Sly Mycroft. Two-thirds of the monitors were of Lestrade's hospital room. The other third were of John Watson's. Both men were asleep, mostly likely from chemical means Sherlock guessed. At two am, few would have been stirring, especially after undergoing mercury decontamination. Sherlock, on the other hand, would have been driving the hospital night staff to distraction to facilitate his escape. After midnight, the nurses tended to be less watchful or expecting a breakout. They also tended to lack the numbers to foil his attempts.

“We'll need to kill him this time,” Mycroft said quietly, folding his hands across his stomach.

“I suggested such last time.” Sherlock watched one of the screens with John on it. The eerily lit image reflected back on his eyes as if he were trying to capture it. There were enough images of this sort already on his mental hard drive from the pool incident. He didn't need more, but 'reassurance' wasn't a word he allowed in his vocabulary.

“It was more important to focus our energies on freeing you and Dr Watson.”

A quiet snort of disdain was all the reply Sherlock gave his brother.

Mycroft's gaze swung onto his brother, finally tearing away from his lover. It was a hard thing to give up, but Sherlock... in the end, it was always Sherlock, wasn't it? His little brother, his blood. How many times had Mummy admonished him to look after Sherlock, to make sure Sherlock had a good first day of school or that he didn't get lost on accident or purposely? “I would make the same decision again.”

A birdlike tilt of his head, and Sherlock met the challenge of his brother's eyes. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it were Lestrade buried under the concrete in a different place than we were?”

“Yes.” There was no beat of hesitation, no doubt in that single word.

“Does he know that?”

“Yes.”

The detective's elegant lips turned in an ugly and disdainful scowl before smoothing out. Arguing with Mycroft would do no good now, not when he needed him. “You cannot this time. I need you to-”

Mycroft interrupted him smoothly, as easily as he would any diplomat, president, prime minister or other person of power who was trying to turn him to their will. “Had Dr Watson been apart from you, I would have let the debris slowly crush him to death under it while my team found you. I could have stepped over a puddle of his warm blood or ignore his pleading whimpers without a change in orders. Do you understand that, Sherlock?”

A glimmer of anger lit in Sherlock's eyes, letting it show in this battle of wills. He knew what this was, what it would be. Mycroft had to control. There was no other choice though. “I understand that only you can protect John while I-”

“No,” Mycroft said, turning his eyes back to the monitors and their unchanging views.

In the ghostly blue light from the screens, Sherlock stared hard at his brother. His mind couldn't fully process that Mycroft was turning him down, refusing to help. Never. Never ever before had Mycroft refused him. If anything, his brother had been spying and smothering. Even when Mycroft had been letting him nearly kill himself with drugs or racing about London, he had always known that safety net was there. Now when he needed his brother (and didn't he hate that bit of knowledge that he was trying to delete) Mycroft was telling him 'no'.

Mycroft's eyes stayed on the sleeping man on the bed, his face rendered cold and remote in the heartless light. “There is no 'I' in this, not on my part or yours. I was upset and distressed before when you began your so-called 'game' with Moriarty. Now, I am _angry_. This little creature has reached up far past his station and challenged us both.”

A slow nod and Sherlock let his eyes drift back to John in his hospital bed against his will. It would have been so easy not to care, to tell himself that the man lying there meant nothing. In time, he might have even believed it, but Sherlock suspected there would always be some ghost in his hard drive telling him that something was missing and that he might never find it again. That suspected loss might just disrupt his ability to think and deduce properly. No, it was easier to just keep John Watson and not deal with the absurdity of all that. Besides, that would mean -he- would have to go get the mundane things like milk or consult outside doctors. It was easier all around. Besides, it could be not-boring to see his arch nemesis battle his would-be arch nemesis. With his help, of course. Moriarty couldn't be let off with what he had done. Not this time. “Then what will we do?”

“Start at the beginning and tell me everything. We'll go from there.”


	5. For nothing now can ever come to any good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More characters start to appear as plans on both sides begin to come together.

_For nothing now can ever come to any good._  
\-- WH Auden, _Stop All the Clocks_

"Do you have him? The man who shot Lestrade?"

While Sherlock had seen his bank of monitors watching the hospital, he hadn't the ones watching Mycroft's guest. But he knew. Mycroft didn't doubt that at all. He also didn't doubt that his brother would have understood completely. Likewise, he knew Sherlock didn't care on moral or ethical grounds. He simply wanted to know, especially if others didn't. Mycroft said nothing. He only stared at the screens showing silent nurses moving about the two sleeping men.

"I know that he escaped somehow, impossibly. Lestrade's people are still looking for him. You really should bring Sally Donovan back. She's one of the few useful ones."

Mycroft said nothing still, only watched with all the expression of a stone idol.

"Lestrade always thought so. She helped him a good deal when he returned. He'll need her again after this."

As much as he loathed it, Mycroft had to admit that Sherlock had a point. The familiar was better than the strange, and he needed people that would insulate Lestrade instead of hope for a downfall like some in the Met did. "She will be back tomorrow."

"I took a look into Randall Sykes, the cutpurse that shot Lestrade."

How Mycroft hated it said that bluntly, but Sherlock was driving at a point, and he needed to be wary. 

"My Irregulars tell me he's always been a worthless sort, but a gun? Not his thing."

Mycroft hadn't need to hear that from Sherlock. He knew it already. Randall Sykes was thirty-five years old, had no family or close friends. Came from the slums and had stayed there. A few scattered minor arrests for theft were all that littered his record. No drugs, no violence. How had a man like that gotten his hands on a gun? And why? The lack of purpose aggravated him.

"Is the police report correct? It was an MP-25?" Sherlock asked, pillaging the leftover carryout on the sidetable for anything edible.

"Yes. MP-25, one of the older models manufactured by the American company Raven Arms. Not the Phoenix Arms version."

Sherlock hummed as he plucked a few shrimp from the a gone cold dish. "Interesting."

And Mycroft had to agree. Raven Arms factory had burnt down in November of 1991 after selling this particular weapon for quite some time. Over two million variations on the original design existed in America, legal and illegal. However, with the manufacturing company burning to the ground, the designs had been sold to Phoenix Arms which went on to produce newer and safer versions of the original weapon. "The factory burnt, but not the warehouse."

"Imagine that. I wonder how many were sitting on the assembly lines or being held there at the factory awaiting transfer to the warehouse. How many had been pulled for flaws."

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, switching the view to a close up as the night charge nurse changed out Gregory's IV. Every movement was studied. "No official factory records survived the fire beyond estimations on what could have been in the warehouse. These are guns from 1991, Sherlock. Old guns. Antiques."

"He got them into England prior to 1997 and the prohibition."

Mycroft nodded. It was a long game, started almost twenty years ago or picked up from someone else. Mycroft wasn't sure which he would have preferred - someone who took advantage of a situation or someone who had that kind of foresight. 

A bite and Sherlock joined him again at the monitors. "Lestrade was an accident. A petty criminal using a found or stolen gun for the first time that got lucky. Moriarty would have chosen his test case better - larger or more personal."

The human factor of things going wrong was something that Mycroft could understand. They were so unpredictable when circumstances turned ugly. "If a thief has one, others might as well. Stab vests are going to be useless against this if he's planning something large. If he's released scores of them. Or plans on releasing."

In the cold blue light of the monitors, Sherlock didn't look concerned. Only his eyes gave him away, how they moved from invisible thing to thing as if running some interior checklist.

Mycroft's head turned as he faced his brother, an unconscious mimic of his brother's birdlike study of something fascinating. "But?"

"It isn't right." And it didn't. Not for Sherlock. This was a trite plan, one meant for bloodshed and maybe chaos but not for some larger purpose, not some move in the Great Game. If he had John, he might have realised it sooner. It was disconcerting to Sherlock that he had missed something so vital due to a single person's absence. He resolved to think about it later. Didn't benefit him any to dwell on it now, and if he found a reason not to examine that fact too deeply later, what did it matter? John would be back and the matter finished regardless.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Mycroft had the beginnings of the same creeping suspicion. Anger and pain had blinded him, but talking with Sherlock had let his logical mind rise again. Moriarty was an easy target, especially with the mercury. "It was a signal. The picture and the mercury. He wanted your attention, but he didn't kill them."

"When he easily could have," Sherlock finished. "It was enough to cause symptoms, but not in the lethal range. I need to put something in the morning paper. He might know who is trying to play our Great Game with us if he's meddling with Lestrade."

"Get it ready. I'll hold the presses as long as I can. There's a man there we might need to start watching you should know about later. Remind me."

Sherlock drew a piece of paper to him and began writing.

 

\-------------------------

A man smiled to himself as he looked over the message in the personals column of the paper. Inconsequential people moved and rushed around him, living their pointless lives while he re-read over the few lines. The reply text he sent off went to two mobiles. One he knew well. The other had a number that changed almost daily and the so-called rulers of the world wished they access to. The real shadow rulers always had it with their morning briefing.

**They'll recover. I only use the finest grade of mercury. What shall we do about this new would-be player? I'd suggest something terrible but there is the matter of those pesky firearms to consider first. Like dealing with a rotten egg full of dead embryo.**  
**Jim**

\---------------------------

Two sets of eyes rolled at reading this. One was in the cab as he gave the driver directions to where on Baker Street he lived. The other was a lovely woman who handed it to someone she would die for without a whisper of complaint.

The third person to read it remained impassive for a time. After a short crisis forming in Ireland had been dealt with to the satisfaction of all parties, he returned to the message and began making calls to other people.

The fourth squeezed the cheap mirror phone in his massive hand until the casing cracked. "Find out who the second number belongs to," he barked out. 

\---------------------------

It was hours later when John had surfaced from the sedatives enough for Sherlock to be reassured he was fine. Outpatient work would be needed, but all was well enough for him. They had to both be clothed with no skin to skin contact just in case although whatever mercury remained would probably be excreted out, not sweated. But John insisted. "What does he mean by the egg part?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first, only breathing for the space of a few seconds. When he did speak, his voice was quiet in the darkness between them, his heartbeat slow against John's back. "An egg with a dead embryo is called an 'addled egg'. It's an older term, not often used these days."

"She...?"

"She's not. No matter what Mycroft thought or told you."

When John fell silent at that, Sherlock pulled him tighter. The thought flitted through his mind that John was a liability, how he hadn't been able to think before. The thought was put away just as quickly as it had been before. In his memory palace, Irene touched his sleeve before he moved on.

\--------------------------------

When Lestrade woke up from the nap he'd decided to take once Sally had gotten him settled in his empty flat, he knew someone was there even before he fully focused and snapped on the bedside lamp.

A ginger man sat at his bedside, thumbing through his mobile and tapping out a reply to a message.

"Sherlock's brother. What are you doing here?" he growled out, sitting up. Already his head hurt. It was to be expected they told him. He'd worry about being civil later.

"We need to talk, Gregory," Mycroft said as he sat aside his phone, transferring everything else to Anthea who waited hidden outside. "There's things you're not aware of that you need to be."

\---------------------------------

Just because he was large, so many thought he was stupid. Everyone had. He was always the muscle, not the planner or the one who was trusted with the 'important' parts of a plan. Now he rose up to his full 6'4 height with his large teeth baring in an ugly snarl. "Then ask the woman if you can't find anything on that number. I want to know who it is."

As the two he had been speaking to scurried out to go question that bitch, he ran a hand along the stained wooden crate behind him. The lid was dislodged enough that the warehouse lights gleamed mellowly on the blued steel of the firearms packed inside. Two more crates just like it set further back. More held ammunition. 

"Have I got a surprise for you and Sherlock, Jimmy," he crooned to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> A repost and continuation of this story from the other acct.


End file.
